


Resonance

by Heavyheadedgal



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Family, Gen, History, Rainer Maria Rilke, moms being perceptive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-14 15:16:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7177055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heavyheadedgal/pseuds/Heavyheadedgal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack visits his German teacher.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Resonance

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Kanste for providing the German for this story!

 

“Mum, where’s your Rilke?”

Jack ran his fingers along the familiar spines on his mother’s bookshelf.  Blake, Goethe, Keats...they were well read, but still in good condition. The mostly cloth-bound covers were free of dust, and only slightly faded -- a testament to their frequent use, and not simply his mother’s housekeeping skills. The gilt letters on the leather volumes shone in the afternoon sunlight. Jack had read nearly all these books multiple times; they were like old friends.

“Next to the Schiller, of course **.** Stell keine so dummen Fragen!” His mother’s voice drifted in from the kitchen, where she was preparing a pot of tea.

It was a week since the investigation in Maiden Creek. The Voigt case had stayed with him, though he tried not to dwell on it. His family had been far luckier than the Voigts -- his father was Australian, and well respected in the community. Jack had quickly learned to keep silent on the subject of his mother’s nationality. Sixteen years of habit were hard to shake, even for Phryne, who had shaken his life so thoroughly. He was not ready to share painful memories, when their reconciliation was still so recent. It was a last, futile attempt at self-preservation, perhaps.

But the lines from Rilke lingered in his mind. He wanted to read the poem in full.

 “It’s not on the shelf.” Jack tapped his finger in the gap between Müller’s collected poetry and Schiller’s letters. His mother’s tastes weren’t strictly classical; there was Edna Millay before Müller, and Robert Frost, with T.S. Eliot beside him.

His mother entered the room, carrying a teapot and cups on a tray. “Wie seltsam.” She placed the tea things on the table and frowned at the shelf. Jack still found it strange that his mother’s beautiful brown hair was now gray. Her eyes, though, were as blue as ever.

“It’s a mystery.” Jack smiled. “Martha Robinson and the Case of the Missing Poet.”

“Hm. You’re reading poetry again? Does this mean you’ve finally given up that American trash you’re so fond of?”

He rolled his eyes. She might grumble about his taste in leisure reading, but she had given him _Wild Horse Mesa_ for Christmas just the same.

“I want to look up a reference,” Jack said. “German literature doesn’t usually turn up as evidence, but it did on my last case. I thought you had a copy of his _Neue Gedichte_?”

“Let me check the bedroom.”

She returned a few moments later with a slim chapbook in her hand. “Hier ist es. It had fallen behind the nightstand.”

“Danke Mama.”

They sat, and his mother poured the tea. Jack opened the book and paused a moment at the inscription on the title page, written in his father’s spidery hand, nearly twenty years ago. Since his passing, Jack had carried on his father’s tradition of buying his mother poetry for her birthday. He flipped through the pages, looking for the lines Flora Ford had sent her lover.

 “At least your murderers have good taste in literature,” said Martha.

“You know, I think you would like _Riders of the Purple Sage_ , if you gave it a chance,” Jack countered.

“I didn’t teach you the language of Goethe so you could read about cowboys,” she replied, but there was amusement in her voice.

“Miss Fisher complimented me on my German just last week, I’ll have you know.”

“Wirklich? Spricht sie Deutsch?”

Considering her ability with Russian, Chinese, Spanish, and French, Jack would not have been at all surprised if Miss Fisher spoke Ancient Sumerian, with a fair amount of Martian to boot.

“I believe Miss Fisher speaks whatever language she pleases.”

“I haven’t heard you mention her in some time,” Martha said, a little too casually, Jack felt. “I thought, perhaps, you were no longer such good friends.”  She looked at him over the rim of her cup.

Jack shifted uncomfortably and turned his attention back to the Rilke. His mother had enjoyed his stories of Miss Fisher’s escapades, in the early days of their association. But as his relationship with Phryne became more complex, he avoided the subject.

“We haven’t shared as many cases, recently.” It wasn’t technically a lie. “But she requested my help on this one.”

“What does Rilke have to do with your murder?” his mother asked, and Jack was relieved she didn’t pursue the subject of Phryne.

“Ah, a potential suspect sent a poem to her lover. It just stayed in my mind,” Jack shrugged, unwilling to share the circumstances of Oskar Voigt’s murder. Martha had been heartbroken when he joined up in ’14. Not because he was taking up arms against his mother’s homeland, but because it contradicted her family’s pacifist principles. They had emigrated to escape the forced conscription of the Empire; but with the newspapers calling for the immediate deportation of German nationals, it had seemed the best way to protect Martha from internment.

 “I tried to look in the library’s copy of his collected verse, but the translation is terrible,” Jack continued.  “I wanted to see if I could do any better.”

“Well,” Martha said, putting her cup down and folding her hands in her lap. “Go on, then.” She waited expectantly.

Shaking his head at himself, Jack finished his tea and leaned his elbows on his knees, studying the pages. He spoke the German words first, then followed hesitantly with English, trying to capture the meaning of words.

“ _How shall I hold my soul so it does not touch on yours?_ ”

_Damn it all to hell_ , he thought, as a traitorous blush crept up his neck. He felt his pulse start to thump. He paused.

“Das ist gut. Mach weiter.” His mother said quietly.

“Uh...” There was nothing for it but to continue. “ _How shall I lift over you to other things?_ ”

_“Ah, willingly I’d store it away_

_with some lost thing in the dark,_

_in some strange still place, that_

_does not tremble when your depths tremble._

_But all that touches us, you and me,_

_takes us, together, like the stroke of a bow,_

_that draws one chord out of the two strings._

_On what instrument are we strung?_

_And what artist has us in their hand?_

_O sweet song.”_

Jack’s voice had gone quiet by the time he finished. He kept his eyes fixed on the book, conscious of his mother’s scrutiny.

He cared for Phryne; more than he should, and to no purpose. Rilke’s words might resonate to his core; but they would not do the same for her. She would never read such a poem and think of him.

But perhaps it was enough, to know that he could care for someone at all. It would have to be.  

He cleared his throat. “Wie war es?”

Martha contemplated him a moment. Her eyes were soft, but he felt as if she could see right through him. Not for the first time, Jack thought she would have made a damn fine investigator.

“Sehr gut **.** Your accent could improve.”

Jack smiled wryly. “Is that a hint that I don’t visit often enough?”

“I never hint.”

“Well, in that case, do you mind if I borrow this?” He lifted the book in his hand.

“Of course not. Just don’t mark the pages.” With a smile, she started a story about neighbourhood gossip, and the subject of poetry was forgotten.

 

When they’d finished, he helped her wash up, before collecting his things. At the front door, Martha gestured as he took his trench off the coat rack.

“This hat, it’s new.”

“Ja. Er war ein Geschenk.” When he saw her curious expression, Jack added, “From a friend.”

“A very good friend, I think.”

Jack simply nodded. Martha put a hand to his cheek, and then brushed non-existent dust off his lapel. “Don’t wait so long to visit next time. Maybe bring that cowboy book you like so much.”

Jack raised his eyebrows. “Giving Mr. Grey a chance after all?”

She smiled. “Since you’re taking my Rilke, I think it’s only fair I borrow one of your favourites.”

“You’ll thank me, wait and see,” he grinned, and kissed her cheek.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Translations:  
>  _Stell keine so dummen Fragen_ : Don’t ask silly questions!  
>  _Wie seltsam_ : How strange.  
>  _Hier ist es_ : Here you are.   
> _Danke Mama_ : Thanks, mum  
>  _Wirklich? Spricht sie Deutsch?_ : Really? She speaks German?  
>  _Das ist gut. Mach weiter_ : That’s good. Keep going.  
>  _Wie war es?_ : How did I do?  
>  _Sehr gut_ : That’s very good.   
> _Ja. Er war ein Geschenk_ : Yes. It was a gift.
> 
> The 1918 translation of Rilke's poetry really is terrible, in my opinion! You can find it on Wikisource if you're curious. As far as I can tell it would have been the only English translation available in 1929; the one I used in my story (and I suspect it's the one used in the episode) is from 2001 by A.S. Kline


End file.
